


Pinwheels

by martimoran



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, I'm new to this, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mild Smut, Mutual Pining, My First Fanfic, Pining, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Slow Burn, extremely slow, i guess?, sorry - Freeform, this is going to get so much better I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3669912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martimoran/pseuds/martimoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the date of John and Mary’s wedding steadily approaches, John and Sherlock must acknowledge latent emotions and come to terms with the inevitable disturbance that will ultimately impact their friendship, for better or for worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you are reading this, thank you so much! This is my first ever attempt at writing fanfiction, so I decided to start small with a ficlet (good chance that this might be longer than anticipated, though). I hope that this won't turn out as cataclysmic as a lot of my other writing... Please feel free to provide any type of feedback!

**July 28th - 14 days before**

 

Flower arrangements. Seating plans. _Tie pins._ John was overwhelmed. His energy and senses were quickly depleting, along with his patience. For the past few weeks, the planning for the wedding had been in full swing. Each day was seemingly filled with assault, as powerful scents, colors, and textures were constantly thrusted in his direction, vying for approval and selection. John was decidedly flustered by the commotion; making decisions left and right was exhausting, for it required much consideration of trivial matters and took attention away from the true purpose of the occasion. In between dashing from place to place, John often found himself thinking about weddings as celebrations of great excitement and rejoicing.

 

_If love and happiness are hallmarks of marriage, then how come I don’t exactly feel love and happiness right now?_

 

* * *

 

On this particular day, John had risen early to meet with the photographer to iron out the details of the professional photography service on wedding day. After an hour of organizing plans for professional portraits, photographs, and a photo booth, everything seemed to be in order. As he started to head home, John realized that he had a few spare hours of the day to himself. He decided to visit Sherlock, since he had not spent much time with the good old friend since he got engaged to Mary and moved in with her in a flat on the outskirts of the London metropolitan area. Life with a romantic partner presented its obligations and kept John on his toes; it brought daily communication between John and Sherlock to stagnation. John hoped that Sherlock was doing fine without him. Paradoxically, he couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable with the notion of Sherlock going through the motions of daily life without the “bachelor” John Watson by his side. Who else dared to earn the role of Sherlock’s blogger, his doctor, his soldier, his _best friend_?

 

* * *

 

The heavy, ornate door slammed shut behind John as he found himself standing in the foyer, facing the stairs leading up to 221B. Taking a deep breath, he marched stoically up the stairs. Inside, however, John was filled with turmoil. Memories of Sherlock abusing drugs to combat boredom and isolation resurfaced in his mind, and caused a wave of chilling apprehension to wash over him. John clenched his jaw, hoping with all his might that Sherlock was okay. That he took care of himself.

 

A rapid walk around revealed an empty flat. Crestfallen, John stood at the window, watching the bustling activity outside for any sign of the dark-haired detective.

 

A quick glance in the kitchen revealed a conglomeration of science equipment on the counters, and rotting food and specimens in the refrigerator. “Typical Sherlock,” John scoffed to himself.

 

Continuing to survey the flat after being absent for a prolonged period of time, he approached Sherlock’s bedroom. Disregarding his conscience and the knowledge that Sherlock frowned upon people entering his bedroom and invading his privacy, John placed himself at the center of Sherlock’s bedroom, turning in a circle as he looked for things that could potentially hint at Sherlock’s present life.

 

He stopped his motion when his line of vision fell upon Sherlock’s unmade bed. The slate grey Egyptian cotton sheets were crumpled and reflected prior usage. John could see the indentation on the pillow where Sherlock’s head had rested, and couldn’t help but construct a mental image of Sherlock sleeping naked, with the soft sheets wrapped around his slender and lanky physique. Finally, John succumbed to the will of his senses as he sat down on Sherlock’s vacant bed and lowered his face into the silky sheets, inhaling the consulting detective’s unique and familiar scent. Oh, it felt like _home_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2, here we go. I think I'm terrible at writing these. At writing in general, really. Oh well, it's still a lovely way to pass the time.

**July 29th - 13 days before**

 

John.

 

His eyes flickered. Sherlock was hovering over him, with his face so close that John could feel the warm breath of the graceful detective tickle his skin and deliver a jet of blissful warmth to his heart.

 

_John._

An amber flame was relentlessly swelling in John’s mind as Sherlock whispered his name over and over in that characteristically silky baritone—a rich and resonating voice that froze John in place and rendered him unwilling to move in fear of missing a single moment during which that voice was moving through the medium of time and space. That mark of an ethereally enchanting, ethereally _beautiful_ man.  

 

Sherlock’s velvet lips came in contact with John’s forehead, nose, mouth, gracing his skin with light kisses that made him shiver with rich sensations of indulgence and pleasure.

 

_Oh, John. How I’ve missed you._

Sherlock glided downwards, his lips gently brushing various points of John’s body—his neck, his collarbones, his sternum, abdomen, pelvis—each mark placed lovingly in a location of increased sensitivity. His lips reached John’s inner thighs, barricaded by the untimely and inconvenient presence of fabric in the form of trousers; pressing on, they slowly worked upwards now, each kiss sending waves of pleasure up John’s spine and manifesting as small sighs, until finally the lips reached the groin, delivering gentle pressure and sending John into an uncontrollable tremor, forcing him to cry out in ecstasy—

 

Suddenly, a thump resonated and pierced the ambiance. John’s eyes fluttered as he jolted awake. With his breathing noticeably elevated, he shot up and found himself sprawled across Sherlock’s bed alone, with satiny sheets draped around his arms and legs.

 

 _Sherlock_.

 

Untangling himself from the sheets and scrambling out of the bedroom, John rushed down the hall and rounded the corner into the living room to find Sherlock sitting in his usual chair. Well, not really _sitting_ , per se. He was turned upside down, one leg thrown over the armrest and the other over the back of the recliner.

 

“Hello, John,” he said matter-of-factly without lifting his head to look at the tousled, heavy-eyed doctor. Suddenly, in one swift motion, he lowered his legs and turned himself right-side up. He gazed at John, looking quite miffed. “I can never understand. What is it that is simply so _fascinating_ about my bedroom that compels individuals like you and my brother to constantly go prying? Can’t a man preserve his own privacy and dignity? I am telling you, there is nothing there for you to find, nothing there that will capture your interest!”

 

John grinned. Images from his fantastical dream surfaced, then ebbed. “Your bedroom?”

 

Sherlock stared at him with rapt attention, his nose scrunched and eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “Yes, my bedroom! You spent the night in my bed, might I add.” He looked thoughtful as he picked up his teacup and held it close to his mouth as if he was going to take a sip. He paused, then changed his mind and placed it down with a soft clink. “Interesting. You are the third person to have ever occupied that bed besides myself and—”

 

“ _Yes_ , yes, I know. Irene Adler,” John grumbled indignantly, suddenly feeling irritated. He thought of Irene Adler, how she had once stayed at 221B, carelessly disturbing the balance of things, ruining his hopes and plans. She seemed to have come dangerously close to capturing Sherlock’s affections. Or had she succeeded?

 

* * *

  

Remaining in a daze from persevering recollections of his sensual dream and his thoughts about Sherlock, John walked over to his old chair, punched the little Union Jack throw pillow until a desired shape was reached, and sat down with a comfortable sigh. It was a routine he performed an innumerable amount of times when he lived with Sherlock, and it made him feel a great sense of nostalgia.

 

As John brooded over everything, Sherlock perched on the edge of his seat with his hands positioned in his typical thinking pose—palms and fingers pressed together propped directly under his chin—and inspected John, who was slumped against his cushion, looking mildly content. “So, breakfast?”

 

John looked completely baffled. “Um… Breakfast?” Immediately, it hit him. _Shit. Mary._

 

Before he could open his mouth, however, Sherlock smiled. “Don’t fret, John. I got home yesterday around lunchtime, and immediately noticed that you were here, sleeping. I called Mary to let her know of your whereabouts, and asked if I should wake you. She was thrilled to hear from me, really. I ran a few errands for you, so everything’s all taken care of. No ongoing consequences from you being dormant for essentially an entire day.”

 

John breathed an uneasy sigh. “I cannot _believe_ I was out for an entire day,” he exclaimed. “I suppose it really shows how stressed I’ve been lately with the wedding coming up.”

 

“Oh, wedding. Right.” Sherlock stood up, facing away from John. He strode over to the window and intently observed the activity on Baker Street below. An icy look washed over his face as he stiffened.

 

Sensing the sudden change in Sherlock’s demeanor, John tentatively took a step towards him. “Things won’t change, you know. Between us. I’m busy now but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten you. I just, uh, you know, need some time to settle down. Plus, you’re my best man, remember? You’re my best friend, you’ve saved my life so many times, and you’ll continue to save my life since you’ll be beside me from now on, through every trial and tribulation. Thank you for being, well, _you_ , Sherlock.”

 

After this sudden monologue, John felt slightly uncomfortable, for Sherlock still stood unblinkingly at the window, apparently refusing to respond. Sherlock picked up his violin and bow, quietly plucked the A string once with his thumb and forefinger, and began to play an etude of his own composition. John sighed. At that moment, his cell phone began to hum excitedly in the pocket of his coat, so he started to turn around and walk out of the flat to answer it. On his way out, he noticed something on the coffee table. It was a large stack of small, uniformly-shaped square papers, in various colors and textures. He stopped and looked up with his mouth slightly open, wanting to ask about them; he then decided against it upon seeing Sherlock’s frigid manner. “Well, I’ll be back soon, got to take this,” he stated. There was still no response other than rapid glissandi from the violin. “Alright, then.” John shook his head. _He’s frustrating, but what else is new? He’ll come around._

 

As soon as the door slammed shut, Sherlock stopped playing. Holding his violin and bow in one hand, he swiftly strode over to the coffee table and picked up a small sheet of square paper from the stack. He fondled gently with it, pondering.

 

“No... Thank _you_ , John.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not bad, I hope? There's so much more coming... Heartbreak. Devastation. This is truly just the beginning! Please review and leave feedback. Once again, thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some brief John/Mary. I'm really sorry, it was painful for me as well. *cringes*

**August 7th - 4 days before**

Rain descended upon the streets of London in torrents, inundating the pavement and asphalt with glossy, lacquer-like puddles. Sporting a thin, olive-colored windbreaker, John emerged from the clinic while pulling up his waterproof hood, having just finished his shift for the day. With his bag slung over his shoulder, he trod out to the parking lot, ready to go home.

 

* * *

 

Mary was sitting and reading an informative book on psychology when the door to the flat squeaked open. “Oh hey, John,” she uttered enthusiastically, standing up to meet her soon-to-be husband as their lips met in a brief greeting.

 

“Hello, Mary. This weather is quite nice… Absolutely delightful, in fact,” John remarked sarcastically, his eyebrows raised as he squelched over to the closet to hang up his windbreaker.

 

“I don’t mind it, really. As long as it fucks off in time for this weekend. The reception is indoors, but still. I’d like it if our guests didn’t show up all wet and in particularly poor moods!” She gave a small, dry laugh.

 

“It’ll be fine,” John reassured. Mary had sat down again, and John joined her, placing his hand over hers. “The skies will clear up when they see _this_ beautiful face,” he quipped playfully as he gently tapped her nose, evoking a small, audible giggle.

 

“This rainy weather makes me want to cuddle under blankets with crisps and tea and the telly. On second thought, probably something stronger than tea.” Mary smirked, glancing at John with a mischievous glint in her eye.   

 

John cleared his throat, stretching his arms and legs to rise from the sofa. “Wine.” He strode over to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle and two glasses. “After these last few weeks, I believe relaxation is in order.”

 

* * *

  

Barely half an hour had passed when John’s cell phone began to chime and vibrate incessantly. John reluctantly removed himself from the coziness of the sofa and his partner once more. _Damn._

  


“Um, hello?”

 

Mrs. Hudson’s shrill voice resonated from the earpiece. “John? John, I didn't want to be a bother or anything, and I tried holding off calling you for as long as possible, but I-I think you’d better come instantly—”

 

John stiffened, his pulse quickening. “Mrs. Hudson? What’s going on? Is Sherlock alright?” _Oh for the love of God, please be fucking alright._

 

“I don’t know, John. He hasn't spoken or eaten in days—I mean, he’s been like this loads of times before—but I think this is different. Also, he’s been doing this thing, it’s… It’s strange and I've never seen it before... It’s like—oh John, you’d better come and see it for yourself—”

 

She trailed off, but to no avail. John had already gotten what he needed. Hanging up before Mrs. Hudson could finish her statement, he snatched up the car keys from the counter and darted for the door, not even bothering to grab his windbreaker to combat the pouring rain. Mary was standing. She followed John to the door, placing herself in front of him to try to get him to stand still. She was blocking his path. “John? John. _John_. Tell me. What the _hell_ is going on?”

 

“ _Something’s wrong with Sherlock, alright?_ ” John felt his voice shake. Was it laced with anger? Or just nervousness? He pulled at the door, forcing it open. The opening door shoved Mary to the side. Her face darkened and she backed away, looking hurt.

 

However, John did not see this. He was already hurtling himself out to the car, wrenching the door open, jamming the keys into the ignition, and hurriedly accelerating away.

 

He expected feelings of guilt to wash over him for his outburst. But none came. Instead, John only felt indignation—a nagging, uncontrollable irritation towards his own fiancée.

 

_How dare she stand in my way? Why doesn't she understand? Why?_

 

He punched the steering wheel as he waited at a light. The dull pain echoed the throbbing disquiet of his heart. He breathed through his nose, willing his nervous system to remain calm and his mind to remain levelheaded. His heart was pounding within his ear, restricting his hearing, threatening to cloud his judgement. _Oh, the heart,_ John thought. _That wretched, godforsaken muscle. A muscle of vitality, but barely one associated with emotional strength._

 

_Oh, God. What am I expecting?_

 

* * *

  

The door to 221B slammed as John scrambled up the stairs, tripping over his own feet twice as he rushed up to the flat with only the thought of one person on his mind. “ _Sherlock?_ ”

 

He stopped short when he saw him. Sherlock’s dark curls, usually bouncy and well-groomed, were matted and unkempt; they mirrored his navy blue dressing gown, which was creased and puckered and blotched with murky brown coffee and tea stains. His unshaven face and under-eye bags were dark, but neither rivaled the darkness reflected in his eyes or demeanor.

 

He was lying on the leather couch, legs up and crossed as if he were getting ready to do crutches. John squinted, and noticed that Sherlock’s hands were busy manipulating something, with his fingers pinched and gathered around a flash of vivid color. Speechlessly intrigued, John slowly approached him.

 

Sherlock was folding an origami _pinwheel_. It was minuscule, dainty— _smaller than a thimble_ , John thought.

 

Tiny, uniform squares of paper were scattered in disorderly piles all over the floor. Strewn among the unfolded papers were close to a hundred finished pinwheels, created from various colors and prints of fresh origami paper. As Sherlock finished folding each pinwheel, he threw it down and retrieved a fresh sheet of paper with his pale and lithe fingers. He stayed focused on each intricate origami creation, folding each one with a different geometric variation. He did not look up.

 

John, still harboring panic mixed with intrigue, shook his head and shifted his stance. “ _Christ_ , Sherlock. What has gotten into you?” He inhaled sharply. “What is this? What the _hell_ are you doing? Are you—”

 

John had suddenly remembered Sherlock’s history with substance abuse. Spinning around, he made eye contact with Mrs. Hudson, who was quietly standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She held up her hand, and with a knowing, tight-lipped expression, shook her head. John knew that she had already conducted a search of the flat, and found nothing. He sighed. At least that wasn't it. _Thank God_.

 

“If you are thinking mind-altering substances, don’t. Your concern and measly brainpower are unnecessary,” Sherlock muttered from the couch, still focused on his pinwheels. “I am _fine_.”

 

John was not convinced. He bent over, picking up a pinwheel. “Then what are these?”

 

Sherlock sighed, turning himself towards the back of the couch, with his back to John. “Just passing the time.”

 

“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock. What are these for?” John detected a note of anguish within his own voice.

 

“It’s not a matter of what, it’s a matter of _who_.”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” _Why is he always so fucking cryptic?_

 

A brutal silence filled the atmosphere of the flat as Sherlock breathed in sharply in preparation for his response. After what felt like an eternity to John, he finally opened his mouth to speak. The words that followed were jagged stones—blades that seemingly pierced John’s heart and left nothing but excruciating devastation in their wake.

  
“They’re for someone I _love_ , John, you wouldn't understand. Leave me alone...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if this is going well or not, to be honest...
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and I hope you'll stay with me for more. Feedback is always welcome; it really functions as a source of encouragement for me.


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